


Wake-ups

by Avice



Series: Love is Round the Corner [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Break Up, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is determined to cure John's nightmares, but are his methods too much for John to take?</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Works as a stand alone. Continued the series by request, but only very loosely linked to previous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake-ups

John woke up. The green numbers on the digital clock informed him that it was 4:52 am. 

If he would have had to guess what had woken him up based on the sounds alone, he would have said that Sherlock was torturing a cat. Possibly several. But since he knew the cool exterior hid a warm and kind heart, he was sure there was some other explanation for the insufferable noise.

He turned over, tried to cover his ears with the pillow. His ear defenders were downstairs, if memory served. There had been the incident with the chainsaw last week, when he had last needed them.

John pondered his options. The noise might end soon allowing him an hour more sleep. But past experience suggested that it might not. In which case he might as well get up as he would wake up at six anyway. 

The high-pitched wailing continued.

He sat up, turned on the light and put on his robe while noticing that the other side of the bed hadn’t been slept in. Though in no way unusual, it still made him worried and a bit sad even.

John mostly slept in his own room, often alone. Not that he didn’t absolutely love falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms in Sherlock’s comfy bed. It was the wake ups in the middle of the night, the experiments in the kitchen and the living room, which had to be conducted regardless of the time, and the complete lack of routine, that he could not get used to. Nor did he want to. He wanted to go to bed, sleep the night, get up in the morning, not vary randomly between the three regardless of the hour. 

In the event he should fall asleep in Sherlock’s bed, he had made Sherlock swear not to disturb him, which was why Sherlock often didn’t let him fall asleep. And, yes, there was something to be said in favour of all night sex romps, but there was only so much John could take and definitely not many nights in a row. 

John’s bed was almost only for sleeping. His room was his and when Sherlock came there, he respected John’s space, had done so without asking. 

In John’s bed they slept in each other’s arms the whole night and if Sherlock awoke, he didn’t get up, but lay still, holding John until sleep or the morning came. 

John did miss Sherlock when he wasn’t there.

But the nightmares were another reason why sleeping separately was not wholly unpleasant. Not that John didn’t appreciate Sherlock’s attempts. Sherlock meant well, he knew that.

But, with sherlockian determination, he had made a case out of comforting John. He had decided to find the perfect method for alleviating John’s anxiety and was clearly prepared to test any and all methods to do so. Sometimes John wondered how much of it was scientific curiosity and how much actual caring. 

The first time John had had a nightmare since they had started sharing a bed, he had awoken in a choking embrace, and it had been unclear which of them was more distressed. John had had to comfort Sherlock and assure him that he had only been dreaming, that he was fine, everything was fine, and Sherlock didn’t need to worry. 

The impact of John’s dreams and the fact that they were out of his control had shaken Sherlock to the core. 

After the first time Sherlock had however been calmer and better prepared. John had not. 

Since then John had woken up in Sherlock’s arms again, the hold slightly looser, and hearing soothing whispers in his ear. 

It hadn’t been that bad, though why the tight embrace, and not just a soothing caress, was unclear. But evidently Sherlock hadn’t been happy with its efficacy (and John’s later assurances of it having been good, great, just what he needed, were disregarded as – apparently – they weren’t supported by the evidence. What that evidence was and, more to the point, what it suggested, was not revealed to mere mortals like John.). 

After that there had been the talk-only approach, where Sherlock matter-of-factly and monotonously repeated: “Wake up, John, it’s only a dream. Wake up, John, it’s only a dream.” ad infinitum until John, completely awake and calm by then, had told him to shut up so that he could sleep. 

The most disturbing so far had been the latest attempt where Sherlock practically sat on him to restrain his legs, held on to his arms and stared at him. That time John’s shouts had not ended when he opened his eyes. 

John wasn’t too keen to find out what would be next. He also hadn’t been able to find out the source for these tactics – possibly a psychology book from the 19th century. Why the internet didn’t suffice this time was not known to him, and since Sherlock obviously was making an effort, he didn’t want to be too harsh. But, frankly, he had started to be a bit afraid of falling asleep next to Sherlock.

John took a deep breath to prepare himself before opening the sitting room door. 

Sherlock was talking, to John probably, though nothing could be heard over the insufferable screeching. He smiled absolutely delighted in seeing John, clearly completely oblivious to the fact that John’s wake up hadn’t been the most pleasant. So happy to see John. So innocent. 

The way Sherlock’s eyes shone, whole appearance glowed, meant there was no way to be mad at him, John thought almost with regret. He was struck once again by the force of his feelings for Sherlock, his whole being brimming with love, surely visibly radiating from him. As if he had never been in love before. And compared to what he felt now, he hadn’t. 

However the state of the kitchen was most certainly not something anybody would want to see first thing in the morning – in love or not. 

There were no cats, but there was a rotting torso on the table (hadn’t they agreed that no body parts that didn’t fit in the fridge were to be brought home?), something that looked like an ultrasonic probe and two large speakers (with clear signs of having been pressed against the body), which were blasting the horrendous sound at full volume. 

How Sherlock had managed all this during the night was a complete mystery. As far as John could tell they hadn't had this… hmm… sound focusing device? (John had no idea) last night at eleven when he had stepped up the stairs to his room. 

The corpse, at least, had definitely not been in the house, that he was sure of. With Molly’s sterner approach to Sherlock nowadays, it was unlikely that she would have provided the body in the middle of the night. 

Do not ask, if you don’t want to know, was a mantra John was used to repeating to himself. 

What could possibly be the purpose of this experiment? John wondered as he studied the recent damage done to the body. 

He needed his tea.

John looked around and found his ear defenders. He then proceeded to make breakfast after kissing Sherlock in passing; the man’s talking hardly stopping when their lips met.

The one good thing with Sherlock’s nightly activities was that they always had the papers fresh out of printers’. John started with a quick browse of the Times before glancing over the Metro and the Daily Mail. Nothing of immediate interest for them. Things relatively quiet in Afghanistan as well.

"So, what's all this?” John finally ventured having finished his tea and toast and feeling ready for the day. The noise had stopped and Sherlock was studying the corpse’s abdomen keenly.

"I just told you. You never listen," Sherlock sulked.

"I can only listen when I'm present and it's actually possible to hear something.” 

Sherlock pouted at the incision he was making.

“Please, I will cherish every word," John persuaded him.

Sherlock didn't need much coaxing. There was always the chance John would be amazed. 

He had had a wonderful night conducting experiments in sonochemistry on the body. The rotting flesh had proved quite responsive to sonification. Lucky for John, most of the night had been spent with ultrasound and the speakers had come in later.

“The results will be very useful if we ever come across a body in, say, an industrial site with heavy machinery or a night club,” Sherlock said satisfied with the night’s work. “Though I don’t think there’d be much need for me on a club OD.” 

“Great, good to hear you had a productive night.”

Sherlock didn’t catch the sarcasm in John’s voice as his phone beeped.

“Ah, week’s first body. Excellent,” Sherlock announced and grabbed his coat.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm? Let’s go!”

“Maybe you’d like to wear something else?”

It took a half-second of bafflement before Sherlock realised he had indeed changed into pyjamas sometime last night, unnecessary as it may have been.

\---

“Sherlock, let me get the door open – ,” John tried to protest when they finally returned home that night.

“But I want you now,” Sherlock panted toppling them over against the sitting room floor. Nimble fingers on John’s belt, anxious lips on his.

There was just enough room for the door to close behind them as the buttons of John’s jeans opened and trousers and undies were pushed lower.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he cursed excited when Sherlock’s fist wrapped around him. He was hard, ready. The taxi ride had made sure of that. 

Sherlock was a master in inconspicuous caresses. Must be the violin playing. Or the lock picking. 

They were fumbling each other’s clothes off best they could. Lips, hands, fingers brushing where possible. 

Sherlock not releasing the hold on John’s cock for one second, stroking him steadily. John not being able to reach Sherlock’s but tearing his hair, fondling his arms. 

Finally naked Sherlock pressed himself against John, sighing with pleasure feeling John, all of John against him, on his skin. 

John kissed his neck, bit. Bucking himself up against Sherlock. 

He took a hold of Sherlock’s buttocks, nape, and rolled them over, getting on top of Sherlock. The way he liked it. 

Looked into Sherlock’s eyes for affirmation. Got it. 

Sherlock lifted his legs, hips. John reached for his trousers, found a lube pack in the pocket. Stroked Sherlock with the now slick fingers. Lubed himself.

In.

Moaning in ecstasy. In Sherlock. He slowed down. No hurry anymore. Kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. Careful pushes. Enjoying every inch. Sherlock pulling him deeper. Wanting more. 

John grazed Sherlock’s chest with his teeth. Loved the symmetry of his body, adored it.

He took Sherlock in his hand and stroked him. 

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes fluttering, the neck tilting back. Gorgeous. 

Faster. Sherlock gasping, reciting the numbers of pi to steady himself. Voice shaking, husky. A strange and captivating chant of his lust. Making John want him all the more.

Until his voice stalled, a tight, quiet ‘ah’ on his lips. Cum on John’s fingers. 

A quaver sending John over, his wet palm pressing against Sherlock’s hip. A curse. Always the same. Quiet. 

Resting. Gentle, light caresses. _You._ Satisfied, hazy smiles.

“Come sleep upstairs?” John asked.

“Mmm. I am a bit tired, you know.”

\---

There they were. The drones far in the horizon. The bullets close. Explosions closer. So much blood. Screams. Gadberry’s face. What was left of it. The eye staring in surprise. The dark eye frozen in wonder. Caught.

The infernal pain on his shoulder. Shouting. His shouting. Cold. 

Something on his face. What? What was it? He couldn’t… It held on strong, he couldn’t shake it off. 

Forgot about the shoulder, he needed to… had to be rid of it. Struggled. 

Hands, someone’s arms. Tried to wring them off him. 

Slowly the reality took over. He heard his own shouting. The panic in it. Usually he woke up to the quiet. He couldn’t stop now. 

Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hands on his face, barely touching, but not letting go either. His own hands on Sherlock’s arms, trying to push him away. 

”Sherlock, for Christ’ sake!” John cried out, “The nightmares are bad enough without your help.” Enough was enough.

Sherlock pulled back. Astonished. 

John didn’t have the energy to care. His pulse still elevated by the terror, his back soaked with sweat. He rolled to his side, away from Sherlock.

“Please... just... leave me alone.”   
He needed to calm down. Breathe.   
Damn it. Breathe.   
Shit. The hands on his face. He shuddered. 

So that’s how it was. John didn’t need him. Didn’t want him. Preferred to be alone. Fine.   
Let him suffer his nightmares just as he pleased. 

Sherlock banged the door shut behind him. He wouldn’t have trouble finding things to do. Not like he _needed_ to be sleeping next to John right now. 

No, he had matters to attend to. 

He could… yes, now would be a good time to visit the unsolved cases in his mind palace. 

Mostly he knew who was guilty, only the proof was lacking. He would go over them again and find out what evidence needed to be found, or if he already knew that, where it could be found. 

With a plan of action in place, Sherlock lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes and put his palms together. 

John could very well keep his sweaty bed and bad dreams. He didn’t mind _not_ occupying his mind with possible cures for them.

Sherlock walked along the marble coated hallways of his palace feeling calmer. He kept the place tidy and organised, so that everything was easy and quick to find when needed. Only his own footsteps echoed in the corridors. 

The atmosphere was soothing.

Something moved in the corner of his mind. As if he wasn’t alone. He focused. There was definitely someone in his palace, just around the corner. He took a few hurried steps. 

John.

No, no, no, John didn’t belong in this part of the palace! Absolutely not. Swiftly he chased the thoughts of John to the recent extension that was dedicated to things of John. 

Such disorganisation was unheard-of. 

He refocused. The Harrington case. 

It had been the father of course. Unable to handle his daughter growing up and having a boyfriend; splitting up their small family, as he saw it. There had been financial trouble as well. The man had been stressed, drinking, not sleeping well. John needed his sleep too, completely lost what little wits he had about him, if he didn’t get his seven hours. 

Wonder if John had managed to fall asleep again? Should he go and check?

Feet already half-way down, Sherlock stopped. No. John didn’t need him. Had been definite. Leave.

The Harrington case… the father. The local police had been incompetent and not put out the fire, where the father had been burning rubbish. So the evidence… John often said it burned in his sleep. Had told him about the smell of gunpowder. The smell of gun wounds. Said it was one of the worst parts about his dreams, the smells. They made everything so real. 

He hadn’t found a cure for John yet, but he would. The next thing he was going to try would probably… wait. Wait. 

He got up. What was going on? He couldn’t focus? No. He was always able to focus. Always. 

Except when he hadn’t been with John yet. And that was now in order. 

Or was it? John had pushed him away. Told him to leave him alone. Were they now... not together anymore? Was that why John was bothering him in his mind palace again?

Had he been… dumped? Astounded he stopped his pacing. 

He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. John had promised. Said to be his always. And now this. 

Asking to be left alone. Refusing his help. 

He was furious. How John dared! How could John think he had the right to leave... a catch like Sherlock! Good looking, intelligent. If John thought he would ever find anyone better, he was sorely mistaken.

Sherlock did have his faults. Admittedly he didn't always pick up on all the clues immediately. Like with the Harrington case. 

And he was forced to concede that his sonochemistry experiment had not been exactly ground breaking. Just interesting to see for himself. 

Worst of all, John still suffered from nightmares. He hadn't been able to help. Wasn't smart enough for that. A man like John... well, he could get anyone he wanted, couldn’t he? Maybe he had had enough of Sherlock's failings?

It twisted in his stomach. A pain turning his insides. He felt sick. Was he becoming ill? 

He really didn’t feel good. Sat down. 

Best go to bed. Get some sleep. 

Even if… even if they weren’t together John would still help him through his illness. Wouldn’t he? He wasn’t going to… leave Baker Street or anything like that? He couldn’t. 

Sherlock felt worse. A sickening bile in his mouth. 

He went to his bedroom posture hunched. Settled down hugging his knees to his chest. He felt really ill. 

\---

It was ominously quiet when John woke up. Hadn’t Sherlock been by his side some time during the night? 

Oh, right. The nightmare. The damned hands. What had that been all about? They would really have to talk. Even if Sherlock would be upset, he would have to be told.

Peeking in Sherlock’s bedroom, he saw the detective sleeping peacefully. He tip-toed in and caressed Sherlock’s head softly. Went to put the kettle on and enjoyed the quiet morning. 

It was not until lunchtime when Sherlock’s feeble voice finally called out for John.

“What is it? Everything all right?” John looked in the bedroom worried.

“I don’t feel well.”

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Didn’t feel a temperature. But the man did look pale.

“What’s wrong?”

“My stomach hurts. As if someone was twisting my insides.”

John had never seen Sherlock looking so weak, almost defeated. He really had to be in pain. 

“Have you been sick? Had diarrhoea?”

Receiving a negative to both, John felt around Sherlock’s abdomen, but could not find anything wrong and no particular part seemed to hurt more than any other.

“Hmm. Well, must be just a bug. You stay in bed for the day. Do you feel up to eating something? That might help.”

“No,” he really couldn’t get anything down, even if he would want to.   
Had this been the last time he would ever feel John’s hands on his body?

“I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Would it be the last cup of tea? He was lying down but still felt dizzy as he listened to John moving in the kitchen.

“Here you are, honey,” John placed the steaming mug by the bed.   
Poor Sherlock, white as a ghost. They would need to discuss the nightmare cures another time.

Honey? John still called him honey. Was it only what he was used to now? Or did it mean something?

“Do you want to watch the telly? I can bring it over,” John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Anything else you’d want me to do to make you feel better?”

_Don’t leave me._

“No.”

John sat down on the bed. Stroked Sherlock’s cheek. Straightened out the curls from his face. 

Sherlock sighed, placed his hand on John’s. Held it against his face.

“John?”

“Hm?”

Sherlock picked up his courage – as if he had ever been afraid: “Are you still… mine?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?” John asked.

“You told me to leave.”

“What do you mean? When?” 

“Last night. Told me to leave you alone.”

John was perplexed. He was quite sure he had not been breaking up with Sherlock last night. Or ever. And was not going to.

“Oh, you mean when you tried to help me with the nightmares?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Don’t worry about it. We can talk when you’re feeling better,” John assured him. 

“No, let’s talk now,” Sherlock insisted.

“Alright,” John gave in. Sherlock had started to look slightly better. “Look, the thing is, I realise you’re trying to help. But what you are doing is not helping. It’s only making things worse.”

“How could I be making it worse? I am not responsible for your dreams.”

“No, but usually when I wake up, I feel better. Lately, with you, I’ve been more scared waking up than in the dream.”

It did not make any sense to Sherlock. How could his presence scare John? 

Then again, John had seemed terrified last night. The hands might not have been a good idea after all. Also the constraining cure had resulted in an unmistakable note of panic in John’s voice. There had also been evident annoyance from John when repeating calming phrases. 

“You want me to stop helping you?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, yes, please. If you want to do something, you can just hold me, but I don’t want any more of these cures you’ve been trying.”

“But you will continue to have the dreams, John. I don’t see how that’ll help,” he tried to argue.

“Trust me, I can deal with the dreams if they are over when I wake up.”

Sherlock shrugged.  
“Fine, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” John confirmed. “And I am yours, always. Don’t worry about that.”

Sherlock felt a lot better. Actually, his stomach did not hurt at all anymore.

“Huh, you are not that bad a doctor. I feel better. Great, as a matter of fact.”

John burst out laughing.  
“Who’s the one with psychosomatic symptoms now?”

Sherlock huffed insulted: “I don’t see what you mean.”

John kissed him, caressed his cheek: “Nothing, hon, nothing.”

Sherlock’s fingers grabbed the back of his head, pulled him close. Eager lips on his. A tongue making its way into his mouth. 

The waves of lust rising again, washing over them. They surrendered, willingly.

John got up, undressed slowly with Sherlock’s eyes on him, a pleased flicker in them. 

“You should always be naked, John. Always.”

“Then you’d miss watching me undress,” John said, tossing his undies in the corner.

“Ah, true, that would be a loss indeed,” Sherlock admitted pulling John on the bed, under him and bit his chest gently. 

His hands wandered on John’s body. It was so familiar by now, he knew it all and yet it was full of new discoveries, always a new land for him to explore, to conquer. 

His lips nibbled along the chest, the abdomen, John relaxing under his touch. 

John tensing under his touch. His body becoming wired, sensitive to the slightest brush of Sherlock’s fingers, lips, a curl brushing his flank. 

His hips bucking up. For Sherlock.

Sherlock slid his tongue along the hard cock. Took it in his mouth, let his tongue run along it. John took a hold of his head, pushed him closer.

He fondled the insides of John’s thighs, cupped his balls and sucked eager, determined. Hungry. 

John’s breath shallow, sharp. Muffled moans he tried to hold back.

Wrapping a fist around the shaft of John’s cock, Sherlock took him in even deeper. All the way, pumped him with his hand, mouth. John’s fingers pulling his hair. Holding on tight.

A long sigh.

Sherlock didn’t waste any time. He was desperate for John. Kissed him deep on the mouth. Let John taste himself as he fumbled for the lube on the bedside table and hands almost shaking stretched John with his fingers.

John, deep in post-orgasmic haze, spread out his arms, lifted his hips, let Sherlock in.

He pushed in slow, but deep. Caught his breath. John tight around him, hips up against him. 

Sherlock came with a violent shudder as if someone turned all the lights off and back on again, a current forcing its way through him. Making him stop, making time stop. A moment frozen outside of reality. 

He fell against John, pressed his face against John’s chest for a minute, before rolling off him. Stayed close, as close as he could. Calming down. Wanting to feel John’s skin against his. 

John wrapped an arm around him. The moment stretching on, peaceful without an end.

Finally Sherlock moved, let their sticky skins get some air. 

“I do have one more idea, though, John.”

“Hmm?”

“For the nightmares, next time – “.

“No.”

“But – “.

“No, Sherlock. No. No. No. No.”

John’s laughter filled the room, filled Sherlock with happiness.


End file.
